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UNIYGRSITY  Of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 


€>C   LIRRIS 


December,  1849. 

A  LIST  OF  BOOKS 

RECENTLY   PUBLISHED   BY 

TICKNOR,   REED,   AND   FIELDS 

LONGFELLOW'S   POEMS. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE.     Just  is- 

sued.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
n. 

EVANGELINE  ;   A  TALE  OF  ACADIE.     In  one  vol- 
ume, 16mo,  price  75  cents. 

in. 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT.     A  New  Edition.     In 

one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

IV. 

BALLADS  AND  OTHER   POEMS.      A  New  Edi- 

tion.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 
v. 

SPANISH  STUDENT.     A  Play  in  Three  Acts.     A 

New  Jkiition.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 

VI. 

BELFRY    OF   BRUGES    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 

A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 

VII. 

THE  WAIF.     A  Collection  of  POEMS.      Edited  by 

LONGFELLOW.    A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  75  cents. 

VIII. 

THE  ESTRAY.     A  Collection  of  POEMS.     Edited 

by  LONGFELLOW.    In  one  volume,  IGino,  price  75  cents. 


LONGFELLOW'S   PROSE  WORKS. 

i. 
KAVANAGH.    A  TALE.    Lately  Published.    In  one 

volume,  IGino,  price  75  cents. 

n. 

OUTRE-MER.      A   PILGRIMAGE  BEYOND  THE  SEA. 

A  New  Edition.    In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  §1.00. 
in. 

HYPERION.     A  ROMANCE.     A  New  Edition.     In 

one  volume,  IGmo,  price  $1.00. 


2  A  LIST  OP  BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 

POETRY. 

i. 
OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.     POEMS.     In  one 

volume,  16mo.    New  Edition,  Enlarged.    Just  out.    Price  $1.00. 
II. 

CHARLES     SPRAGUE.       POETICAL    AND    PROSE 

WRITINGS.    New  and  Revised  Edition.    la  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75 
cents  - 

HI. 

ROBERT     BROWNING.       COMPLETE     POETICAL 

WORKS.    In  two  volumes,  16mo.    Price  $2.00. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON.     POEMS.     A  New  Edition. 

Enlarged,  with  Portrait.     In  two  volumes,  16mo,  price  $1.50. 
v. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON.   THE  PRINCESS.   A  MEDLEY. 

Just  out.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 
VI. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.     POEMS,   NARRATIVE 

and  LYRICAL.    A  New  Edition,  Enlarged.      In  one  volume,  16mo,  price 
75  cents. 

VII. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL.   MINSTRELSY,  ANCIENT 

and  MODERN.  With  an  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION  and  NOTES. 
In  two  volumes,  IGino,  price  $1.50. 

VIII. 

RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES.   POEMS  OF  MANY 

YEARS.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 
IX. 

LEIGH  HUNT.    STORY  OF  RIMINI  and  Other  Poems. 

In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 
x. 

REJECTED  ADDRESSES.     From  the  19th  London 

Edition.     Carefully  Revised.     With  an   ORIGINAL  PREFACE  and  NOTES. 
By  HORACE  and  JAMES  SMITH.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

XI. 

BARRY  CORNWALL.      ENGLISH  SONGS  and  other 

SMALL  POEMS.    In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 

XII. 

JOHN  BOWRING.      MATINS   AND   VESPERS,   with 

HYMNS  AND  OCCASIONAL  DEVOTIONAL  PIECES.    In  one  volume,  32mo, 
cloth,  gilt  edges,  price  37  1-2  cents. 

XIII. 

EPES    SARGENT.       Sojvcs   OF    THE    SEA,    WITH 

OTHER  POEMS.     In  one  volume,  16mo,  price  50  cents. 

EACH    OP    THE    ABOVE    POEMS    AND    PROSE  WRITINGS,  MAY  BE    HAD  IN 
VARIODS   STYLES  OF   HANDSOME    BINDING. 


BY  TICK  NOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 


MISCELLANEOUS, 


i. 
ALDERBROOK ;  A  Collection  of  Fanny  Forester's 

VILLAGE  SKETCHES,  POEMS,  etc.      In  two  volumes,  12mo,  with  a  fine 
Portrait  of  the  Author.     A  New  Edition,  Enlarged.    Just  oub. 

11. 

GREENWOOD  LEAVES.     A  Collection  of  GRACE 

GREENWOOD'S  Stories  and  Letters.    la  one  volume,  J2mo.    Just  pub- 
lished.   Price  $1.25. 

in. 

EDWIN  P.  WHIPPLE.      LECTURES   ON  SUBJECTS 

CONNECTED   WITH    LITERATURE   AND    LlFK.      In  QUO   Volume,  IGlltO.    Just 

published.    Price  63  cents. 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER.     OLD  PORTRAITS  AND  MOD- 

ERN  SKETCHES.    In  one  volume,  16mo.    Just  published. 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER.     MARGARET  SMITH'S  JOUR- 

NAL.    In  one  volume,  16mo. 

VI. 

HENRY  GILES.  LECTURES,  ESSAYS,  AND  MISCEL- 
LANEOUS WRITINGS.  Two  volumes,  16rao. 

VII. 

THOMAS  DE  QUINCEY.    MISCELLANEOUS   WRI- 

TINGS,  including  the  "CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EATER," 
&.c.  &c.     (In  Press.) 

VIII. 

THE  BOSTON  BOOK  FOR  1850.      BEING   SPECI- 

MENS  OF  METROPOLITAN  LITERATURE.     In  one  volume,  12mo.    (Just 
issued.) 

IX. 

CHARLES  SUMNER.    ORATIONS  AND  PUBLIC  AD- 

DRESSES.    In  two  volumes,  12mo.     In  Press. 
x. 

HEROINES  OF  THE  CHURCH.    BEING  MEMOIRS 

OF  DISTINGUISHED  AMERICAN  FEMALE  MISSIONARIES.  In  one  volume, 
J6mo. 

XI. 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD.  SERMONS  OF  CONSOLA- 
TION. A  New  Edition,  on  very  fine  paper  and  large  type.  In  one  volume, 
16mo,  price  $1.00. 

XII. 

CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN  :  MORAL,  PO- 
ETICAL and  HISTORICAL.  By  MRS.  JAMESON.  New  Edition,  Corrected 
and  Enlarged.  In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 


BEN  PERLEY  POORE.     THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF 

Louis  PHILIPPE,  with  Pen  and  Pencil  Sketches  of  his  Friends  and  his 
Successors.    Portraits.    Sl.OO. 


BOOKS  PUBLISHED  BY  TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 


MRS.  PUTNAM'S  RECEIPT  BOOK;  AND  YOUNG 

HOUSEKEEPER'S  ASSISTANT.    A  Now  and  Enlarged  Edition.    In  one  vol- 
ume, 16ino,  price  50  cents. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN ;  Considered  in 

Relation  to  External  Objects.  By  GEORGE  COMBE.  With  an  Additional 
Chapter,  on  the  HARMONY  BETWEEN  PHRENOLOGY  A,\D  REV- 
ELATION.  By  J.  A.  WARNE,  A.  M.  Twenty-seventh  American  Edi- 
tion. In  one  volume,  12mo,  price  75  cents. 


A  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  ON  THE  CULTIVA- 
TION OF  THE  GRAPE  VINE  ON  OPEN  WALLS.  To  which  is 
added,  a  Descriptive  Account  of  an  Improved  Method  of  Planting  and 
Managing  the  Roots  of  Grape  Vines.  With  Plates.  In  one  volume, 
12mo,  price  62  1-2  cents. 

XVII. 

ORTHOPHONY  ;   Or  the  Culture  of  the  Voice  in 

Elocution.  A  Manual  of  ELEMENTARY  EXERCISES,  adapted  to  Dr.  Hush's 
«  PHILOSOPHY  OF  THE  HUMAN  VOICE,"  and  the  system  of  Vocal 
Culture  introduced  by  Mr.  James  E.Murdoch.  Designed  as  an  INTRO- 
DUCTION to  Russell's  "AMERICAN  ELOCUTIONIST."  Compiled 
by  WILLIAM  RUSSELL,  author  ot  "  Lessons  in  Enunciation,"  etc.  With 
a  Supplement  on  PURITY  OF  TONE,  by  G.  J.  WEBB,  Professor,  Boston 
Academy  of  Music.  Improved  Edition.  In  one  volume,  12mo,  price 
621-2  cents. 

ivm. 

ANGEL-VOICES  ;  or  WORDS  OF  COUNSEL  FOR  OVER- 

COMING  THE  WORLD.  In  one  volume,  18mo.  A  New  Edition,  Enlarged. 
Price  38  cents. 


FRENCH. 


COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  FRENCH  GRAMMAR; 

Containing  all  the  Rules  of  the  Language,  upon  a  New  and  Improved 
Plan.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo,  half-embossed  morocco, 
$1.50. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S   SPEAKING   EXERCI- 

SES.  For  the  Illustration  of  the  Rules  and  Idioms  of  the  French 
Language.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo.  half-embossed  mo- 
rocco, 63  cents. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  KEY  TO  THE  FRENCH 

EXERCISES.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  vol.  12mo,  half-embossed 
morocco,  50  cents. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  EXERCISES  AND  KEY. 

Bound  in  1  volume,  half-embossed  morocco,  $1.00. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  SELF  -  TEACHING 

iREADER.  For  the  Study  of  the  Pronuncintion  of  the  French  Lan- 
guage, after  a  Plan  entirely  New,  which  will  enable  the  Student  to 
•acquire  with  facility  a  Correct  Pronunciation,  with  or  without  the  as- 
sistance of  a  Teacher.  New  (Stereotype)  Edition.  1  volume,  12mo, 
hall-embossed  morocco,  50  cents. 

The  above  Series  is  used  in  the  Universities  of  Cambridge,  Hanover,  and  Vir- 
ginia, as  well  as  in  many  other  Colleges,  Academies,  and  Schools, 
in  New  England  and  elsewhere. 


s 


THE 


SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR,    REED,    AND   FIELDS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1849,  by 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED   AND    PRINTED    BY 

METCALF    AND    COMPANY, 

PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

DEDICATION  ....        ,        .        .        1 

BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship        .        i        ,        .  .7 

The  Evening  Star       .        ..,,<.        *        •        •  30 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea    .      '....,.  .32 

Twilight      .        .                  35 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert     .        .        .        .  •     .  .37 

The  Lighthouse           '.        '.        .        .        '.        .  41 

The  Fire  of  Drift-wood           .        .        .        .  .45 

BY  THE   FIRESIDE. 

Resignation      j  •  .         ..-..•        .         .  51 

The  Builders  .        .         .         ....        .  .55 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-glass            .         .  58 

Birds  of  Passage .     62 


397130 


iv  CONTENTS. 

The  Open  Window     .        .        .        .        .        .  65 

King  Witlaf ' s  Drinking-horn          .        .        .  .67 

Gaspar  Becerra   .......  70 

Pegasus  in  Pound  .        , 73 

Tegner's  Death 77 

Sonnet ~.      ,  .  '  .     82 

The  Singers        .        .        .        ...        .        .  84 

Suspiria          ........  87 

Hymn          .        .        ,        *     \  •        ».-"'-•        •  89 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille      .        .        .  .     91 

A  Christmas  Carol 118 

NOTES  123 


DEDICATION. 


DEDICATION. 


As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  it  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come, 
Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  heark- 
ens ; 


So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O  my  friends  ! 

I  hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 
And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 

His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance, 
i 


2  DEDICATION. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told, 
Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation, 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a  thousand  fold, 
By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone, 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be 
spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land  ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart's  deep  history, 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand,  — 

One  touch  of  fire,  —  and  all  the  rest  is  mystery  ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places, 

And  are  to  us  as  if  a  living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces  ! 


DEDICATION.     '  3 

Perhaps  on  earth  I  never  shall  behold, 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and 
semblance  ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 
But  live  for  ever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away  ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  for  ever, 
When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay, 

As  through  a  leafless  landscape  flows  a  river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends, 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations, 

But  the  endeavour  for  the  selfsame  ends, 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I  hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk, 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion  ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 


DEDICATION. 


Therefore  I  hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest, 

At  your  warm  fireside,   when  the  lamps  are 
lighted, 

To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest, 
Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  ! 


BY    THE    SEASIDE 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


"  BUILD  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master  ! 

Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 
That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

The  merchant's  word 

Delighted  the  Master  heard  ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 

Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 


8  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

A  quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 
As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 
Play  round  the  bows  of  ships, 
That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 
And  with  a  voice  that  was  full  of  glee, 
He  answered,  "  Ere  long  we  will  launch 
A  vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  stanch, 
As  ever  weathered  a  wintry  sea  !  " 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 
Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 
A  little  model  the  Master  wrought, 
Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man, 
Its  counterpart  in  miniature  ; 
That  with  a  hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 
And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o'er 


THE    BUILDING    OF     THE    SHIP. 

The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 
And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall, 
Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall, 
With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air, 
And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there, 
And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 
And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 
From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 
And  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  Our  ship,  I  wis, 
Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  !  " 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A  beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast, 

Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast, 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 


10  BY     THE     SEASIDE. 

Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees, 
That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm, 
And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas, 
Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force, 
Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 
With  the  model  of  the  vessel, 

That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! 

Covering  many  a  rood  of  ground, 
Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; 
Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak, 
And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these, 
The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 
Brought  from  regions  far  away, 
From  Pascagoula's  sunny  bay, 


THE     BUILDING     OF    THE     SHIP.  11 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke  ! 

Ah  !  what  a  wondrous  thing  it  is 

To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 

One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion  ! 

There  's  not  a  ship  that  sails  the  ocean, 

But  every  climate,  every  soil, 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small, 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o'er  the  sea, 
And  long  the  level  shadows  lay, 
As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of  some  great,  airy  argosy, 
Framed  and  launched  in  a  single  day. 
That  silent  architect,  the  sun, 
Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one, 
Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 
Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 
A  youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning, 


12  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 
Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach, 
Interrupted  the  old  man's  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 

Many  a  ship  that  sailed  the  main 

Was  modelled  o'er  and  o'er  again  ;  — 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 

The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter's  hand, 

When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 

What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

"  Thus,"  said  he,  "  will  we  build  this  ship  ! 
Lay  square  the  blocks  upon  the  slip, 
And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 


THE    BUILDING     OF     THE     SHIP.  13 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware  ; 

For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 

To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 

Here  together  shall  combine. 

A  goodly  frame,  and  a  goodly  fame, 

And  the  UNION  be  her  name  ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 

Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  !  " 

The  Master's  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a  look  of  joy  and  a  thrill  of  pride, 

Standing  before 

Her  father's  door, 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair, 


14  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 
With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air. 
Like  a  beauteous  barge  was  she, 
Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach, 
Just  beyond  the  billow's  reach  ; 

But  he 

* 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea  ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love's  command  ! 
It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain, 
That  to  the  highest  doth  attain, 
And  he  who  folio  we  th  Love's  behest 
Far  exceedeth  all  the  rest  ! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 

Was  the  noble  task  begun, 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard's  bounds 

Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 


THE     BUILDING     OF     THE     SHIP.  15 

Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 
With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side  ; 
Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 
That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 
The  keel  of  oak  for  a  noble  ship, 
Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 
Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 
The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 
Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 
Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun, 
And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied, 
By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide  ! 

Arid  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o'er, 
The  young  man  at  the  Master's  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 
And  within  the  porch,  a  little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill, 
The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 


16  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales, 

Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again, 

The  chance  and  change  of  a  sailor's  life, 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  strife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 

And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands, 

Where  the  tumbling  surf, 

O'er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 

Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 

At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea, 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery, 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 

Arid  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a  gleam 


THE     BUILDING     OF    THE     SHIP.  17 

From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 
The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a  dream  ; 
And  for  a  moment  one  might  mark 
What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 
That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man's  breast  ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 
With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 
Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 
Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 
A  skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 
And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 
The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied, 
Till  after  many  a  week,  at  length, 
Wonderful  for  form  and  strength, 
Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 
Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

2 


18  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 

Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 

Caldron,  that  glowed, 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 

And  amid  the  clamors 

Of  clattering  hammers, 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 

The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  :  — 

tc  Build  me  straight,  O  worthy  Master, 
Stanch  and  strong,  a  goodly  vessel, 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster, 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  !  " 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band, 
Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand, 
That,  like  a  thought,  should  have  control 
Over  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 


THE    BUILDING     OF    THE     SHIP.  19 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 

Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 

And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast  ! 

And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 

By  a  cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 

Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a  classic  mould, 

Not  like  a  Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old, 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master's  daughter  ! 

On  many  a  dreary  and  misty  night, 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light, 

Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 

Like  a  ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark, 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark, 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight, 

By  a  path  none  other  knows  aright  ! 


20  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

Behold,  at  last, 
Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 
Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast  ! 

Long  ago, 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine, 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 

Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell,  —  those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

'Mid  shouts  and  cheers 

The  jaded  steers, 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 

Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall, 

To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair, 

And,  naked  and  bare, 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP.       21 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 

Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main, 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  for  evermore 

Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again. 

And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  mast  head, 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A  flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah  !  when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless, 

In  foreign  harbours  shall  behold 

That  flag  unrolled, 

7T  will  be  as  a  friendly  hand 

Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memories  sweet  and  endless  ! 


22  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

All  is  finished  !  and  at  length 

Has  come  the  bridal  day 

Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o'er  the  bay, 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old, 

Centuries  old, 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro, 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide, 

With  ceaseless  flow, 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 


THE    BUILDING     OF    THE    SHIP.  23 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands, 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands, 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay, 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day, 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending, 

Round  her  like  a  veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray,  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover's  side. 
Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 
Broken  by  many  a  sunny  fleck, 
Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 


The  prayer  is  said, 
The  service  read, 


24  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head  ; 

And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 

Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son, 

Kisses  his  daughter's  glowing  cheek 

In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor  — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 

That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold, 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock  — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear, 

Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer, 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom's  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 

Of  the  sailor's  heart, 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs, 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs, 


THE    BUILDING     OF     THE     SHIP.  25 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow, 
And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force, 
The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 
Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he  :  — 

"  Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  outer  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink, 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  !  it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 


26  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  !  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  !  " 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a  gesture  of  command, 

Waved  his  hand  ; 

And  at  the  word, 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard, 

All  around  them  and  below, 

The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 


THE     BUILDING    OF    THE     SHIP.  27 

Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  !  she  stirs  ! 

She  starts,  —  she  moves,  —  she  seems  to  feel 

The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel, 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 

With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound, 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean's  arms  ! 

And  lo  !  from  the  assembled  crowd 

There  rose  a  shout,  prolonged  and  loud, 

That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say,  — 

"  Take  her,  O  bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 

Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms, 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  !  " 

How  beautiful  she  is  !     How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a  soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 


28  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O  ship  ! 
Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  ! 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip, 
Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
O  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be  ! 
For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

** 
Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  O  UNION,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate  ! 


THE    BUILDING     OF     THE     SHIP.  29 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 
Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock  ; 
'T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 
In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest  roar, 
In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 
Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee, 
Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears. 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 
Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee  ! 


30 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 


JUST  above  yon  sandy  bar, 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer. 
Lonely  and  lovely,  a  single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a  dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail4  of  its  golden  splendor, 
And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 

Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 


THE     EVENING     STAR.  31 

Chrysaor  rising  out  of  the  sea, 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous. 

Leaving  the  arms  of  Callirrhoe, 

For  ever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o'er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly  ; 
Is  it  a  God,  or  is  it  a  star 

That,  entranced,  I  gaze  on  nightly  ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE   SEA. 


AH  !  what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 

As  I  gaze  upon  the  sea  ! 
All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sendal, 
Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 

And  the  singing  of  the  sailors, 
And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 


THE    SECRET    OF    THE    SEA.  33 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long, 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailor's  mystic  song. 

«  • 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a  sea-beach, 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines, 

With  a  soft,  monotonous  cadence, 
Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines  ;  — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand, 
Saw  a  fair  and  stately  galley, 

Onward  steering  to  the  land  ;  — 


How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 
Chant  a  song  so  wild  and  clear, 

That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 
Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear, 

3 


34  BY   THE    SEASIDE. 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse 
"  Helmsman  !  for  the  love  of 

Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song  !  " 

\  'fr>/ 
•  . 
"  Wpuldst  thou,^— *so  the  helmsman  answered, 

"  Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery  !  " 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 
In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I  behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ;    ' 


Till  n 

' 


ill  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 
or  the  secret  of  the  sea, 
And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 
Sends  a  thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


35 


»i».  ft 

**  *  1  *  f -  * 


TWILIGHT/ 


THE  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like*  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage    ^ 
There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 

And  a  little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 


• 


36  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

«v 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
JVow  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 


And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


37 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 


SOUTHWARD  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast, 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 

Glistened  in  the  sun  ; 
On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide, 

Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 


38  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 
Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 

But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 
Leaden  shadows  o'er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed  ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas  !  the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas  !  the  land-wind  failed, 
And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  never  more,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 


He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand  ; 

"  Do  not  fear  !  Heaven  is  as  near," 
He  said,  "  by  water  as  by  land  !  " 


SIR    HUMPHREY    GILBERT.  39 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a  signal's  sound, 
Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 

Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 
Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize, 

At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 
As  of  a  rock  was  the  shock  ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark, 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 
With  mist  and  rain,  to  the  Spanish  Main  ; 

Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 


40  BY     THE     SEASIDE. 

Southward,  for  ever  southward, 
They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a  dream,  in  the  Gulf- Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


41 


THE     LIGHTHOUSE. 


THE  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea, 
And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away, 

The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 
A  pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 

Even  at  this  distance  I  can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A  speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 


42  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air, 

Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  its  glare  ! 

Not  one  alone  ;  from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean's  verge, 

'Starts  into  life  a  dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holding  its  lantern  o'er  the  restless  surge. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  the  tempestuous  wave, 

Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands, 
The  night-o'ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return, 
Bending  and  bowing  o'er  the  billowy  swells, 

And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn, 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 


THE    LIGHTHOUSE.  43 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their  sails 
Gleam  for  a  moment  only  in  the  blaze, 

And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils, 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a  child, 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink  ; 

And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild, 
He  saw  it  rise  again  o'er  ocean's  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 
Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night 

Burns  on  for  evermore  that  quenchless  flame, 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light  ! 

It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace  ; 
It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 

And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a  fleece. 


44     '  BY    THE     SEASIDE. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ;  the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries, 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within, 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 

A  new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock, 
But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

"  Sail  on  !  "  it  says,  "  sail  on,  ye  stately  ships  ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span  ; 
Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse, 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man  !  " 


45 


THE   FIRE   OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 


WE  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 
Whose  windows,  looking  o'er  the  bay, 

Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 
An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port,  — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town,  - 

The  light-house,  —  the  dismantled  fort,  — 
The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 


46  BY   THE    SEASIDE. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight, 
Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a  vanished  scene, 
Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead  ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 
When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 
That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 
Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 


THE     FIRE     OF    DRIFT-WOOD.  47 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I  could  but  mark  ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A  mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 
We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main,  — 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames,  — 
The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach,  — 

The  gusty  blast,  —  the  bickering  flames,  — 
All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 


48  BY     THE     SEASIDE. 

Until  they  made  themselves  a  part 

Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain,  — 

The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 
That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O  flames  that  glowed  !  O  hearts  that  yearned  ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 
The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


BY    THE     FIEESIDE 


\ 


51 


RESIGNATION. 


THERE  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended, 

But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 
There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe'er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of.  farewells  to  the  dying, 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 
The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 

Will  not  be  comforted  ! 


52  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 

Let  us  be  patient  !  These  severe  afflictions 

Not  from  the  ground  arise, 
But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 

Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors  ; 

Amid  these  earthly  damps 
What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 

May  be  heaven's  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  !  What  seems  so  is  transition  ; 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  a  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead,  —  the  child  of  our  affection,  — 

But  gone  unto  that  school 
Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 

And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 


RESIGNATION.  53 

In  that  great  cloister's  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  le^ 
Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin's  pollution, 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 

In  those  bright  realms  of  air  ; 
Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing, 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 

The  bond  which  nature  gives, 
Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken, 

May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her  ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 
In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a  child  ; 


54  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

But  a  fair  maiden,  in  her  Father's  mansion, 

Clothed  with  celestial  grace  ; 
And  beautiful  with  all  the  souPs  expansion 

Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

~m 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 

And  anguish  long  suppressed, 
The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean. 

That  cannot  be  at  rest,  — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 

We  may  not  wholly  stay  ; 
By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing, 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


55 


THE  BUILDERS. 


ALL  are  architects  of  Fate, 

"Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low  ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 


56  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these  ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 


In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part  ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well, 
Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 


THE     BUILDERS.  57 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 
Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 

Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 


Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a  firm  and  ample  base  ; 

And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 


Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 
Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 

And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


58 


SAND    OF    THE    DESERT    IN    AN    HOUR- 
GLASS. 


* 


A  HANDFUL  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 

Of  Arab  deserts  brought, 
Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 
i 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 

About  those  deserts  blown  ! 
How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen, 

How  many  histories  known  ! 


SAND    OF    THE     DESERT. 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 
Trampled  and  passed  it  o'er, 

When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch's  sight 
His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread  ; 

Or  Pharaoh's  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 


leyspe 

• 


Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazarel 

Held  close  in  her  caress, 
Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 

Illumed  the  wilderness  ; 

Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi's  palms 

Pacing  the  Red  Sea  beach, 
And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 

In  half-articulate  speech  ; 


(50  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora's  gate 

With  westward  steps  depart  ; 
Or  Mecca's  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart  ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed  ! 

Now  in  this  crystal  tower 
Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last, 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 


^aze,  these  narrow  walls  expand  ; 
Tre  my  dreamy  eye 
Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 
Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast, 

This  little  golden  thread 
Dilates  into  a  column  high  and  vast, 

A  form  of  fear  and  dread. 


SAND     OF    THE     DESERT.  61 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun, 

Across  the  boundless  plain, 
The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run, 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes  !     These  walls  again 

Shut  out  the  lurid  sun, 
Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  ; 

The  half-hour's  sand  is  run  ! 

• 


-J 


BIRDS  OF    PASSAGE. 


BLACK  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 
That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A  tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 


BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE.  63 

But  the  night  is  fair, 

And  everywhere 

A  warm,  soft,  vapor  fills  the  air, 

And  distant  sounds  seem  near  ; 

i 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night, 
Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I  hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet, 
As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a  southern  lea. 

1  hear  the  cry 
Of  their  voices  high 
Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky, 
But  their  forms  I  cannot  see. 


64  BY   THE    FIRESIDE. 

O,  say  not  so  ! 
Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 

They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wrongs, 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 
Of  souls,  that  high 
On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly, 
Seeking  a  warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night, 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


65 


THE   OPEN    WINDOW. 


THE  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 

And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I  saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 

But  the  faces  of  the  children, 
They  were  no  longer  there. 

5 


66  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone  ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 
He  could  not  understand 

Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  !  closer, 
I  pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand  ! 


67 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN. 


WITLAF,  a  king  of  the  Saxons, 
Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed, 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed,  — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels, 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl, 

They  might  remember  the  donor, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  soul. 


!  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 
And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 
They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 

And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 
And  Saint  Basil's  homilies  ; 


KING  WITLAF'S  DRINKING-HORN.        69 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 

From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 
Guthlac  and  Bartholomaeus, 

Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney, 

And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 
And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 

But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 

He  clutched  the  golden  bowl, 
In  which,  like  a  pearl  dissolving, 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 

The  jovial  monks  forbore, 
For  they  cried,  "  Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more  !  " 


70 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 


BY  his  evening  fire  the  artist 

Pondered  o'er  his  secret  shame  ; 

Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

'T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But  alas  !  his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 


71 


From  a  distant  Eastern  island 

Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought ; 
Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 

At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep, 
And  the  day's  humiliation 

'Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a  voice  cried,  "  Rise,  O  master  ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee  !  " 

And  the  startled  artist  woke,  — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 
Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood  ; 

And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image, 
And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 


72  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

O  thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet  ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart  : 
That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


73 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 


ONCE  into  a  quiet  village, 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning, 
Strayed  the  poet's  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves. 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 

Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 


74  BY   THE    FIRESIDE. 

Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ringing 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim  ; 

'T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 
Not  a  triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 
In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled  ; 

Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 
That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common, 
By  the  school-boys  he  was  found  ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom, 
Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier, 
Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell, 

Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 


PEGASUS   IN   POUND.  75 

And  the  curious  country  people, 
Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old, 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
Fell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant, 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars, 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o'er  the  landscape, 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars  ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 

Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 
And,  from  out  a  neighbouring  farm-yard, 

Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 


76  BY   THE    FIRESIDE. 

Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain, 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions, 
To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo  !  the  strange  steed  had  departed, 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
"Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod, 

Pure  and  bright,  a  fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 

Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


77 


TEGNER'S  DEATH. 


I  HEARD  a  voice,  that  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 
And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 


78  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 

I  saw  the  pallid  corpse 

Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 

Blasts  from  Niffelheim 

Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 

Around  him  as  he  passed. 

And  the  voice  for  ever  cried, 
"  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  !  " 
And  died  away 
Through  the  dreary  night, 
In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 
God  of  the  summer  sun, 
Fairest  of  all  the  Gods  ! 
Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Runes  were  upon  his  tongue, 
As  on  the  warrior's  sword. 


79 


All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 
Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 
Ah1  save  the  mistletoe, 
The  sacred  mistletoe ! 

Hreder,  the  blind  old  God, 
Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence, 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud 
Made  of  the  mistletoe, 
The  accursed  mistletoe  ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship, 
With  horse  and  harness, 
As  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
Odin  placed 
A  ring  upon  his  finger, 
And  whispered  in  his  ear. 


80  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship  ! 
It  floated  far  away- 
Over  the  misty  sea, 
Till  like  the  moon  it  seemed, 
Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 
Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods  ! 
But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a  new  land  of  song, 
Fairer  than  the  old. 
Over  its  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O  ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before  ! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race. 

Feed  upon  morning  dew, 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love  ! 


TEGNER'S   DEATH.  81 

The  law  of  force  is  dead  ! 
The  law  of  love  prevails  ! 
Thor,  the  thunderer, 
Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats, 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 
O  ye  bards  of  the  North, 
Of  Vikings  and  of  Jarls  ! 
Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only, 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood ! 


82 


SONNET      • 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE'S  READINGS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 

O  PRECIOUS  evenings  !  all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 

Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 

Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 

Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 

Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages, 

Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 


SONNET.  83 

O  happy  Reader  !  having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose   Sibylline   leaves   have 

caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought  ! 
O  happy  Poet  !  by  no  critic  vext  ! 
How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a  voice  ! 


84 


THE    SINGERS. 


GOD  sent  his  Singers  upon  earth 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 
That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a  youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a  golden  lyre  ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams. 

Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 


THESINGERS.  85 

The  second,  with  a  bearded  face, 
Stood  singing  in  the  market-place, 
And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 

A  gray,  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 
Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast, 
While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  which  the  best  might  be  ; 
For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  "  I  see 

No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree  ; 

I  gave  a  various  gift  to  each, 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 


>  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

"  These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might. 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
Will  hear  no  discord  in  the  three, 
But  the  most  perfect  harmony." 


87 


SUSPIRIA. 


TAKE  them,  O  Death  !  and  bear  away 
"Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own  ! 

Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay, 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone  ! 

Take  them,  O  Grave  !  and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves, 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by, 
And  precious  only  to  ourselves  ! 


88  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

Take  them,  O  great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a  gust, 
That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree, 

And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust ! 


89 


HYMN 

FOR -MY  BROTHER'S  ORDINATION. 

CHRIST  to  the  young  man  said  :  "  Yet  one  thing 
more  ; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 
Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 

And  come  and  follow  me  !  " 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen, 

Those  sacred  words  hath  said, 
And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 

Laid  on  a  young  man's  head. 


90  BY    THE    FIRESIDE. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move, 

That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 
u  Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ?  " 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 
To  make  the  scene  more  fair; 

Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 
Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O  holy  trust  !  O  endless  sense  of  rest  ! 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour's  breast, 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


BLIND   GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE. 


FROM  THE  GASCON  OP  JASMIN. 


ONLY  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Rehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright; 
Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill ; 
And  take,  O  Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


93 


THE   BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE. 


FROM    THE    GASCON    OF    JASMIN. 


AT  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 
Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  tree 
In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white, 
This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 

On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  Eve  : 


94  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

•* 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,   the  roads  should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending  ; 
When  lo  !  a  merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye, 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain, 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain  ; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  had  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 
Together  blending, 
And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hill-side  steep, 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF     C ASTEL-CUILL  E .      95 

They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 
Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The  sky  was  blue  ;  without  one  cloud  of  gloom, 
The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 


96  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 
A  rustic  bridal,  ah  !  how  sweet  it  is  ! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies, 
That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 
A  band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 
A  band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking  ! 
Kissing^ 
Caressing, 
With  fingers  pressing, 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 
They  retreat  and  advance, 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest 
and  merriest ; 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF     CASTEL-CUILLE.      97 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 
Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries  : 
"  Those  who  catch  me 

Married  verily 

This  year  shall  be  !  » 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 
And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 
And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 
And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 
So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 
Baptiste  stands  sighing,  witffisilent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 
Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all, 
That  love,  o'er-hasty,  precedeth  a  fall  ? 
O,  no  !  for  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 
Never  bore  so  lofty  a  brow  ! 


BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

What  lovers  !  they  give  not  a  single  caress  ! 
To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day. 

These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 
What  ails  Baptiste  ?  what  grief  doth  him  oppress  ? 

It  is,  that,  half  way  up  the  hill, 
In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 
Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still, 
Daughter  of  a  veteran  old  ; 
And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago, 
That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender, 
"Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 
And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 
Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared  ; 
For  them  the  altar  was  prepared  ; 
But  alas  !  the  summer's  blight, 
The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay, 
The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night, 
Took  the  young  bride's  sight  away. 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF    CASTEL-CUILLE.       99 

All  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed  ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged. 
Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  fled  ; 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried, 
"  Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 
Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  !  "    And  by  a  foun- 
tain's side 

A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 
Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears, 
And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 
Is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 


100  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 

She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 
She  promises  one  a  village  swain, 
Another  a  happy  wedding-day, 
And  the  bride  a  lovely  boy  straightway. 
All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers  ; 
She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a  countenance  severe, 
And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
Who,  like  a  statue,  stands  in  view  ; 
Changing  color,  as  well  he  might, 
When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say  :  — 
u  Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  ! 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF    CASTE L-CU IL LE.     101 

Lest,  when  thou  weddest  this  false  bridegroom, 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb  !  " 
And  she  was  silent ;  and  the  maidens  fair 
Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a  swollen  tear  ; 
But  on  a  little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 
Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again  ; 
The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear  ;  — 
And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys, 
With  merry  sallies, 
They  sang  the  refrain  :  — 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the   roads  should 

bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 


102  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 


II. 


And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 
But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 
Thus  lamented  Margaret, 
In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  :  — 

"  He  has  arrived  !  arrived  at  last! 
Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days  past 

Arrived  !  yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 
And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star  ! 


THE     BLIND    GIRL    OF     C  AST  E  L  -  C  U  I  L  LE  .    103 

Knows  that  long  months  I  wait  alone,  benighted, 
And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away  ! 
Come  !  keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day, 
That  I  may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I  plighted  ! 
What  joy  have  I  without  thee  ?  what  delight  ? 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery  ; 
Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 

For  ever  night !  for  ever  night ! 
When  he  is  gone  't  is  dark  !  my  soul  is  sad  ! 
I  suffer  !  O  my  God  !  come,  make  me  glad. 
When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude  ; 
Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptiste  has  blue  eyes  ! 
Within  them  shines  for  me  a  heaven  of  love, 
A  heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above, 

No  more  of  grief !  no  more  of  lassitude  ! 
Earth  I  forget,  —  and  heaven,  and  all  distresses, 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses  ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all ! 
Where  is  Baptiste  ?  he  hears  not  when  I  call  ! 


104  BY     THE     FIRESIDE.  « 

A  branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 
I  need  some  bough  to  twine  around  ! 

In  pity  come  !  be  to  my  suffering  kind  ! 

True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound  ! 
What  then  —  when  one  is  blind  ? 

"  Who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  am  forsaken  ! 
Ah  !  woe  is  me  !  then  bear  me  to  my  grave  ! 

O  God  !  what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
Away  !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  ! 

He  will  return  !  I  need  not  fear  ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear  ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill ! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 

Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise  ! 
But  some  one  comes  !     Though  blind,  my  heart 

can  see  ! 
And  that  deceives  me  not !  't  is  he  !  't  is  he  !  " 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF     C  ASTEL -GUI  LLE.    105 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set, 

And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless  eyes  ; 
'T  is  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries  :  — 

"  Angela  the  bride  has  passed  ! 
I  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by  ; 
Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked  ? 
For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I !  " 

"  Angela  married  !  and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

O,  speak  !  who  may  the  bridegroom  be  ?  " 

"  My  sister,  't  is  Baptiste,  thy  friend  !  " 

A  cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said  ; 

A  milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks  ; 
An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead, 
Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks, 


106  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to  beat, 
Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 
She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  distressed, 
A  wax  Madonna  as  a  peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

u  Hark  !  the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 
Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing  ? 
How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest ! 
Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest  ! 
I  would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray, 
And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay  ; 
Perhaps  they  will  come  ;  for  they  do  not  wed 
Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o'clock,  it  is  said  !  " 
"  I  know  it  !  "  answered  Margaret ; 
Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet, 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF     C ASTEL-CUILLE .    107 

Mastered  again  ;  and  its  hand  of  ice 
Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a  vice  ! 

"  Paul,  be  not  sad  !     'T  is  a  holiday  ; 
To-morrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 
But  leave  me  now  for  a  while  alone." 
Away,  with  a  hop  and  a  jump,  went  Paul, 
And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall, 
Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

4 '  Holy  Virgin  !  what  dreadful  heat ! 
I  am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath  ! 
But  thou  art  cold,  —  art  chill  as  death  ; 
My  little  friend  !  what  ails  thee,  sweet  ?  " 
"  Nothing  !  I  heard  them  singing  home  the  bride  ; 
And,  as  I  listened  to  the  song, 
I  thought  my  turn  would  come  ere  long, 
Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 
Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie, 
To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy, 


108  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 
And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 
It  must  seem  long  to  him  ;  —  methinks  I  see  him 

now  !  » 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press  : 
' '  Thy  love  I  cannot  all  approve  ; 
We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness  ;  — 
Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayst  love  him  less  !  " 

"  The  more  I  pray,  the  more  I  love  ! 
It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  !  " 
It  was  enough  ;  and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold  ; 
But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a  sweet,  contented  air  ; 
Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair, 
At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 
Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 


THE    BLIND    GIRL     OF    CAS  TEL- CU  I  L  LE  .    109 

So  that,  departing  at  the  evening's  close, 

She  says,  "  She  may  be  saved  !  she  nothing 
knows  !  " 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 
Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  prophetess  ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart, 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art  ! 


110  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 


III. 


Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 
And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 
Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting, 
How  differently  ! 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed, 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown, 
Decks  with  a  huge  bouquet  her  breast, 
And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 
Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF     C  ASTEL-CUI LLE .    Ill 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room, 

Has  neither  crown  nor  flower's  perfume  ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart, 

That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 
And,  'neath  her  bodice  of  bright  scarlet  dye, 

Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

'Mid  kisses  ringing, 

And  joyous  singing, 
Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow, 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor, 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 
"  O  God  !  forgive  me  now  !  " 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 
Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand, 


112  BY   THE    FIRESIDE. 

Towards  the  church,  through  paths  unscanned, 

With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 
Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale, 

Round  her  at  times  exhale, 
And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 
Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part, 

Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A  little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded  there  ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof, 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof, 
Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF    C  ASTEL- C  U  ILL  E  .    113 

"  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by  !  " 
Thus  Margaret  said.      "  Where  are  we  ?  we  as- 
cend !  " 

u  Yes  ;  seest  thou  not  our  journey's  end  ? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  cry  ? 
The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

'  O  daughter,  I  am  weak  and  low ; 
Take  care  of  Paul ;  I  feel  that  I  am  dying  ! ' 
And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  ? 
Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud  ; 
And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave  ;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set ; 
Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret  ? 

Come  in  !     The  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 
Thou  tremblest !    O  my  God  !  thou  art  going  to 
swoon  !  " 


114  BY     THE     FIRESIDE. 

She  could  no  more,  —  the  blind  girl,  weak  and 

weary  ! 

A  voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  dreary, 
"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter  ?  "  —  and 

she  started  ; 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted  ; 
But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  ever  more 

Her  steps  towards  the  open  door  ; 
And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 
And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 
Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 
Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal, 
No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid, 
She  walks,  as  for  a  feast  arrayed, 
And  in  the  ancient  chapel's  sombre  night 
They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

4 

At  length  the  bell, 
With  booming  sound, 


THE     BLIND    GIRL     OF    CASTEL-CUILLE.    115 

Sends  forth,  resounding  round, 
Its  hymeneal  peal  o'er  rock  and  down  the  dell. 
It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain  ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 
For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train, 
And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay, 
For  lo  !  Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  day, 
Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 
Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  cross,  I  wis  ; 
To  be  a  bride  is  all !     The  pretty  lisper 
Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whisper, 
"  How  beautiful !  how  beautiful  she  is  !  " 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 
For  already  the  Mass  is  said  ; 


116  BY    THE     FIRESIDE. 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest ; 
The  wedding  ring  is  blessed  ;  Baptiste  receives  it ; 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 
'T  is  spoken  ;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side 
"  'T  is  he  !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 
And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath, 
Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see  ! 
"  Baptiste,"  she  said,  "  since  thou  hast  wished  my 

death, 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !  " 
And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended  ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 

For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  she  fell  ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse, 
The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air  ; 


THE    BLIND    GIRL     OF    C  ASTEL-CUI LL  E .    117 

Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 
To  the  church-yard  forth  they  bear  ; 
Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 
Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day, 
No,  ah  no  !  for  each  one  seemed  to  say  :  — 

"  The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 
Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away  ! 
So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 


118 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FROM    THE   NOEI    BOURGUIGNON   DE    GUI    BAROZAI. 

I  HEAR  along  our  street 

Pass  the  minstrel  throngs  ; 

Hark  !  they  play  so  sweet, 
On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 

Let  us  by  the  fire 

Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  119 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the  chimes  ; 
Loud  the  gleemen  sing 
In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  bora, 
Sang,  with  many  a  change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet  ; 
While  the  rafters  rang, 
There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 


120  TRANSLATIONS. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide, 
For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

Washerwomen  old, 
To  the  sound  they  beat, 
Sing  by  rivers  cold, 
With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  121 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings  ; 
But  he  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a  carol  brings. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 
Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 


NOTES. 


125 


NOTES. 


Page  20.     Behold,  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place. 

I  wish  to  anticipate  a  criticism  on  this  passage  by 
stating,  that  sometimes,  though  not  usually,  vessels  are 
launched  fully  rigged  and  sparred.  I  have  availed  my- 
self of  the  exception,  as  better  suited  to  my  purposes  than 
the  general  rule ;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is  neither 
a  blunder  nor  a  poetic  license.  On  this  subject  a  friend  in 
Portland,  Maine,  writes  me  thus  :  — 

"  In  this  State,  and  also,  I  am  told,  in  New  York,  ships 


126  NOTES. 

are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save 
time,  or  to  make  a  show.  There  was  a  fine,  large  ship 
launched  last  summer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  rigged  and  spar- 
red. Some  years  ago  a  ship  was  launched  here,  with  her 
rigging,  spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed  the 
next  day  and — was  never  heard  of  again !  I  hope  this 
will  not  be  the  fate  of  your  poem !  " 

Page  37.     Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert. 

"When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were  near 
enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly  sitting  in  the 
stern,  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  On  the  9th  of  September 
he  was  seen  for  the  last  time,  and  was  heard  by  the  people 
of  the  Hind  to  say,  '  We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by 
land.'  In  the  following  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  sud- 
denly disappeared.  The  people  in  the  other  vessel  kept  a 
good  lookout  for  him  during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage. 
On  the  22d  of  September  they  arrived,  through  much  tem- 
pest and  peril,  at  Falmouth.  But  nothing  more  was  seen 
or  heard  of  the  Admiral."  —  BELKNAP'S  American  Biog- 
raphy, I.  1*503. 


NOTES.  127 

Page  91.     The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuilte. 

Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful  poem,  is  to  the 
South  of  France  what  Burns  is  to  the  South  of  Scot- 
land, —  the  representative  of  the  heart  of  the  people,  —  one 
of  those  happy  bards  who  are  born  with  their  mouths  full 
of  birds  (la  bouco  pleno  d'aouzelous).  He  has  written  his 
own  biography  in  a  poetic  form,  and  the  simple  narrative 
of  his  poverty,  his  struggles,  and  his  triumphs,  is  very 
touching.  He  still  lives  at  Agen,  on  the  Garonne;  and 
long  may  he  live  there  to  delight  his  native  land  with 
native  songs ! 

The  following  description  of  his  person  and  way  of  life 
is  taken  from  the  graphic  pages  of  "  Beam  and  the  Pyre- 
nees," by  Louisa  Stuart  Costello,  whose  charming  pen 
has  done  so  much  to  illustrate  the  French  provinces  and 
their  literature. 

"  At  the  entrance  of  the  promenade,  Du  Gravier,  is  a 
row  of  small  houses,  —  some  cafes,  others  shops,  the  indir 
cation  of  which  is  a  painted  cloth  placed  across  the  way, 
with  the  owner's  name  in  bright  gold  letters,  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  arcades  in  the  streets,  and  their  announcements. 
One  of  the  most  glaring  of  these  was,  we  observed,  a 


128  NOTES. 

bright  blue  flag,  bordered  with  gold ;  on  which,  in  large 
gold  letters,  appeared  the  name  of  'Jasmin,  Coiffeur.' 
We  entered,  and  were  welcomed  by  a  smiling,  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  informed  us  that  her  husband  was  busy  at 
that  moment  dressing  a  customer's  hair,  but  he  was  de- 
sirous to  receive  us,  and  begged  we  would  walk  into  his 
parlour  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

"  She  exhibited  to  us  a  laurel  crown  of  gold,  of  delicate 
workmanship,  sent  from  the  city  of  Clemence  Isaure, 
Toulouse,  to  the  poet ;  who  will  probably  one  day  take 
his  place  in  the  capitoul.  Next  came  a  golden  cup,  with 
an  inscription  in  his  honor,  given  by  the  citizens  of 
Auch  ;  a  gold  watch,  chain,  and  seals,  sent  by  the  king, 
Louis  Philippe ;  an  emerald  ring  worn  and  presented  by 
the  lamented  Duke  of  Orleans ;  a  pearl  pin,  by  the  grace- 
ful Duchess,  who,  on  the  poet's  visit  to  Paris  accompanied 
by  his  son,  received  him  in  the  words  he  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Henri  Quatre  :  — 

'  Brabes  Gaseous ! 

A  moua  amou  per  bous  aou  dibes  creyre : 
Benfes!  ben^a!  ey  plaz6  de  boua  beyre: 

Aproucha  bous ! ' 


NOTES.  129 

A  fine  service  of  linen,  the  offering  of  the  town  of  Pau, 
after  its  citizens  had  given  fetes  in  his  honor,  and  loaded 
him  with  caresses  and  praises ;  and  nicknacks  and  jewels 
of  all  descriptions  offered  to  him  by  lady-ambassadresses, 
and  great  lords ;  English  '  misses '  and  '  miladis  ' ;  and 
French,  and  foreigners  of  all  nations  who  did  or  did  not 
understand  Gascon. 

"  All  this,  though  startling,  was  not  convincing;  Jas- 
min, the  barber,  might  only  be  a  fashion,  a  furore,  a  ca- 
price, after  all ;  and  it  was  evident  that  he  knew  how  to 
get  up  a  scene  well.  When  we  had  become  nearly  tired 
of  looking  over  these  tributes  to  his  genius,  the  door 
opened,  and  the  poet  himself  appeared.  His  manner  was 
free  and  unembarrassed,  well-bred,  and  lively ;  he  received 
our  compliments  naturally,  and  like  one  accustomed  to 
homage ;  said  he  was  ill,  and  unfortunately  too  hoarse  to 
read  any  thing  to  us,  or  should  have  been  delighted  to  do 
so.  He  spoke  with  a  broad  Gascon  accent,  and  very  rapidly 
and  eloquently ;  ran  over  the  story  of  his  successes ;  told 
us  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a  beggar,  and  all  his 
family  very  poor ;  that  he  was  now  as  rich  as  he  wished  to 

be ;  his  son  placed  in  a  good  position  at  Nantes ;  then 
9 


130  NOTES. 

showed  us  his  son's  picture,  and  spoke  of  his  disposition, 
to  which  his  brisk  little  wife  added,  that,  though  no  fool, 
he  had  not  his  father's  genius,  to  which  truth  Jasmin 
assented  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  told  him  of  having  seen 
mention  made  of  him  in  an  English  review ;  which  he 
said  had  been  sent  him  by  Lord  Durham,  who  had  paid 
him  a  visit ;  and  I  then  spoke  of  '  Mi  cal  mouri '  as  known 
to  me.  This  was  enough  to  make  him  forget  his  hoarse- 
ness and  every  other  evil :  it  would  never  do  for  me  to 
imagine  that  that  little  song  was  his  best  composition  ;  it 
was  merely  his  first ;  he  must  try  to  read  to  me  a  little  of 
'  L'Abuglo,'  —  a  few  verses  of  '  Frangouneto  '  ;  —  '  You 
will  be  charmed,'  said  he ;  '  but  if  I  were  well,  and  you 
would  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for  some 
time,  if  you  were  not  merely  running  through  Agen,  I 
would  kill  you  with  weeping, — I  would  make  you  die 
with  distress  for  my  poor  Margarido,  —  my  pretty  Fran- 
couneto ! ' 

"  He  caught  up  two  copies  of  his  book,  from  a  pile 
lying  on  the  table,  and  making  us  sit  close  to  him,  he 
pointed  out  the  French  translation  on  one  side,  which  he 
told  us  to  follow  while  he  read  in  Gascon.  He  began  in  a 


NOTES.  131 

rich,  soft  voice,  and  as  he  advanced,  the  surprise  of  Hamlet 
on  hearing  the  player-king  recite  the  disasters  of  Hecuba 
was  but  a  type  of  ours,  to  find  ourselves  carried  away  by 
the  spell  of  his  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  swam  in  tears ;  he 
became  pale  and  red ;  he  trembled  ;  he  recovered  himself; 
his  face  was  now  joyous,  now  exulting,  gay,  jocose ;  in 
fact,  he  was  twenty  actors  in  one ;  he  rang  the  changes 
from  Rachel  to  Bouffe ;  and  he  finished  by  delighting  us, 
besides  beguiling  us  of  our  tears,  and  overwhelming  us 
with  astonishment. 

"  He  would  have  been  a  treasure  on  the  stage ;  for  he 
is  still,  though  his  first  youth  is  past,  remarkably  good- 
looking  and  striking  ;  with  black,  sparkling  eyes,  of  in- 
tense expression ;  a  fine,  ruddy  complexion  ;  a  countenance 
of  wondrous  mobility ;  a  good  figure ;  and  action  full  of  fire 
and  grace  ;  he  has  handsome  hands,  which  he  uses  with  in- 
finite effect ;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the  best  actor  of  the 
kind  I  ever  saw.  I  could  now  quite  understand  what  a 
troubadour  or  jongleur  might  be,  and  I  look  upon  Jasmin 
as  a  revived  specimen  of  that  extinct  race.  Such  as  he  is 
might  have  been  Gaucelm  Faidit,  of  Avignon,  the  friend 
of  Cceur  de  Lion,  who  lamented  the  death  of  the  hero  in 


132  NOTES. 

such  moving  strains ;  such  might  have  been  Bernard  de 
Ventadour,  who  sang  the  praises  of  Queen  Elinore's 
beauty ;  such  Geoffrey  Rudel,  of  Blaye,  on  his  own  Ga- 
ronne ;  such  the  wild  Vidal :  certain  it  is,  that  none  of  these 
troubadours  of  old  could  more  move,  by  their  singing  or 
reciting,  than  Jasmin,  in  whom  all  their  long-smothered 
fire  and  traditional  magic  seems  reillumined. 

"We  found  we  had  stayed  hours  instead  of  minutes 
with  the  poet ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  any  apology,  — 
only  regretted  that  his  voice  was  so  out  of  tune,  in  conse- 
quence of  a  violent  cold,  under  which  he  was  really  labor- 
ing, and  hoped  to  see  us  again.  He  told  us  our  country- 
women of  Pau  had  laden  him  with  kindness  and  attention, 
and  spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty  of  certain 
'  misses,'  that  I  feared  his  little  wife  would  feel  somewhat 
piqued  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  stood  by,  smiling  and 
happy,  and  enjoying  the  stories  of  his  triumphs.  I  re- 
marked that  he  had  restored  the  poetry  of  the  troubadours ; 
asked  him  if  he  knew  their  songs  ;  and  said  he  was  worthy 
to  stand  at  their  head.  '  I  am,  indeed,  a  troubadour,'  said 
he,  with  energy ;  '  but  I  am  far  beyond  them  all ;  they 
were  but  beginners  ;  they  never  composed  a  poem  like  my 


NOTES.  133 

Fran9ouneto  !  there  are  no  poets  in  France  now,  —  there 
cannot  be ;  the  language  does  not  admit  of  it ;  where  is 
the  fire,  the  spirit,  the  expression,  the  tenderness,  the  force 
of  the  Gascon  ?  French  is  but  the  ladder  to  reach  to  the 
first  floor  of  Gascon,  —  how  can  you  get  up  to  a  height 
except  by  a  ladder !  ' 

"  I  returned  by  Agen,  after  an  absence  in  the  Pyrenees 
of  some  months,  and  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  Jas- 
min and  his  dark-eyed  wife.  I  did  not  expect  that  I  should 
be  recognized ;  but  the  moment  I  entered  the  little  shop  I 
was  hailed  as  an  old  friend.  '  Ah ! '  cried  Jasmin,  '  enfin 
la  voila  encore  !  '  I  could  not  but  be  flattered  by  this 
recollection,  but  soon  found  it  was  less  on  my  own  account 
that  I  was  thus  welcomed,  than  because  a  circumstance 
had  occurred  to  the  poet  which  he  thought  I  could  perhaps 
explain.  He  produced  several  French  newspapers,  in 
which  he  pointed  out  to  me  an  article  headed  '  Jasmin  a 
Londres  '  ;  being  a  translation  of  certain  notices  of  him- 
self, which  had  appeared  in  a  leading  English  literary 
journal.  He  had,  he  said,  been  informed  of  the  honor 
done  him  by  numerous  friends,  and  assured  me  his  fame 


134  NOTES. 

had  been  much  spread  by  this  means ;  and  he  was  so  de- 
lighted on  the  occasion,  that  he  had  resolved  to  learn  Eng- 
lish, in  order  that  he  might  judge  of  the  translations  from 
his  works,  which,  he  had  been  told,  were  well  done.  1 
enjoyed  his  surprise,  while  I  informed  him  that  I  knew 
who  was  the  reviewer  and  translator ;  and  explained  the 
reason  for  the  verses  giving  pleasure  in  an  English  dress 
to  be  the  superior  simplicity  of  the  English  language  over 
modern  French,  for  which  he  has  a  great  contempt,  as 
unfitted  for  lyrical  composition.  He  inquired  of  me  re- 
specting Burns,  to  whom  he  had  been  likened ;  and  begged 
me  to  tell  him  something  of  Moore.  The  delight  of  him- 
self and  his  wife  was  amusing,  at  having  discovered  a 
secret  which  had  puzzled  them  so  long. 

"  He  had  a  thousand  things  to  tell  me  ;  in  particular, 
that  he  had  only  the  day  before  received  a  letter  from  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  informing  him  that  she  had  ordered  a 
medal  of  her  late  husband  to  be  struck,  the  first  of  which 
would  be  sent  to  him :  she  also  announced  to  him  the 
agreeable  news  of  the  king  having  granted  him  a  pension 
of  a  thousand  francs.  He  smiled  and  wept  by  turns,  as 
he  told  all  this ;  and  declared,  much  as  he  was  elated  at 


NOTES.  135 

the  possession  of  a  sum  which  made  him  a  rich  man  for 
life,  the  kindness  of  the  Duchess  gratified  him  even 
more. 

"  He  then  made  us  sit  down  while  he  read  us  two  new 
poems ;  both  charming,  and  full  of  grace  and  naweti ;  and 
one  very  affecting,  being  an  address  to  the  king,  alluding 
to  the  death  of  his  son.  As  he  read,  his  wife  stood  by, 
and  fearing  we  did  not  quite  comprehend  his  language, 
she  made  a  remark  to  that  effect :  to  which  he  answered 
impatiently,  «  Nonsense,  —  don't  you  see  they  are  in  tears.' 
This  was  unanswerable ;  and  we  were  allowed  to  hear  the 
poem  to  the  end ;  and  I  certainly  never  listened  to  any 
thing  more  feelingly  and  energetically  delivered. 

"  We  had  much  conversation,  for  he  was  anxious  to 
detain  us,  and,  in  the  course  of  it,  he  told  me  that  he  had 
been  by  some  accused  of  vanity.  *O,'  he  rejoined, 
'  what  would  you  have  !  I  am  a  child  of  nature,  and  can- 
not conceal  my  feelings ;  the  only  difference  between  me 
and  a  man  of  refinement  is,  that  he  knows  how  to  conceal 
his  vanity  and  exultation  at  success,  which  I  let  every 
body  see.'  "  —  Beam  and  the  Pyrenees,  I.  369,  et  seq. 


136  NOTES. 

Page  118.     A  Christmas  Carol. 

The  following  description  of  Christmas  in  Burgundy 
is  from  M.  Fertiault's  Coup  d'oeil  sur  les  Noels  en 
Bourgogne,  prefixed  to  the  Paris  edition  of  Les  Noels 
Bourguignons  de  Bernard  de  la  Monnoye  ( Gui  Bardzai) , 
1842. 

"  Every  year,  at  the  approach  of  Advent,  people  refresh 
their  memories,  clear  their  throats,  and  begin  preluding,  in 
the  long  evenings  by  the  fireside,  those  carols  whose 
invariable  and  eternal  theme  is  the  coming  of  the  Mes- 
siah. They  take  from  old  closets  pamphlets,  little  col- 
lections begrimed  with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the 
press,  and  sometimes  the  pen,  has  consigned  these  songs ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  first  Sunday  of  Advent  sounds,  they 
gossip,  they  gad  about,  they  sit  together  by  the  fireside, 
sometimes  at  one  house,  sometimes  at  another,  taking 
turns  in  paying  for  the  chestnuts  and  white  wine,  but  sing- 
ing with  one  common  voice  the  grotesque  praises  of  the 
Little  Jesus.  There  are  very  few  villages  even,  which, 
during  all  the  evenings  of  Advent,  do  not  hear  some 
of  these  curious  canticles  shouted  in  their  streets,  to 
the  nasal  drone  of  bagpipes.  In  this  case  the  minstrel 


NOTES.  137 

comes  as  a  reinforcement  to  the  singers  at  the  fireside  ; 
he  brings  and  adds  his  dose  of  joy  (spontaneous  or  mer- 
cenary, it  matters  little  which)  to  the  joy  which  breathes 
around  the  hearth-stone  ;  and  when  the  voices  vibrate  and 
resound,  one  voice  more  is  always  welcome.  There,  it  is 
not  the  purity  of  the  notes  which  makes  the  concert,  but 
the  quantity,  —  non  qualitas,  sed  quantitas;  then,  (to  finish 
at  once  with  the  minstrel,)  when  the  Saviour  has  at  length 
been  born  in  the  manger,  and  the  beautiful  Christmas  Eve 
is  passed,  the  rustic  piper  makes  his  round  among  the 
houses,  where  every  one  compliments  and  thanks  him,  and, 
moreover,  gives  him  in  small  coin  the  price  of  the  shrill 
notes  with  which  he  has  enlivened  the  evening  entertain- 
ments. 

"  More  or  less,  until  Christmas  Eve,  all  goes  on  in  this 
way  among  our  devout  singers,  with  the  difference  of 
some  gallons  of  wine  or  some  hundreds  of  chestnuts. 
But  this  famous  eve  once  come,  the  scale  is  pitched  upon 
a  higher  key  ;  the  closing  evening  must  be  a  memorable 
one.  The  toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall ;  then  comes  the 
hour  of  supper,  admonishing  divers  appetites ;  and  groups, 
as  numerous  as  possible,  are  formed  to  take  together  this 


138  NOTES. 

comfortable  evening  repast.  The  supper  finished,  a  circle 
gathers  around  the  hearth,  which  is  arranged  and  set  in 
order  this  evening  after  a  particular  fashion,  and  which  at 
a  later  hour  of  the  night  is  to  become  the  object  of  special 
interest  to  the  children.  On  the  burning  brands  an  enor- 
mous log  has  been  placed.  This  log  assuredly  does  not 
change  its  nature,  but  it  changes  its  name  during  this 
evening :  it  is  called  the  Suche  (the  Yule-log) .  '  Look 
you,'  say  they  to  the  children,  '  if  you  are  good  this 
evening,  Noel '  (for  with  children  one  must  always  per- 
sonify) '  will  rain  down  sugar-plums  in  the  night.'  And 
the  children  sit  demurely,  keeping  as  quiet  as  their  tur- 
bulent little  natures  will  permit.  The  groups  of  older 
persons,  not  always  as  orderly  as  the  children,  seize  this 
good  opportunity  to  surrender  themselves  with  merry 
hearts  and  boisterous  voices  to  the  chanted  worship  of  the 
miraculous  Noel.  For  this  final  solemnity,  they  have 
kept  the  most  powerful,  the  most  enthusiastic,  the  most 
electrifying  carols.  Noel !  Noel !  Noel !  This  magic 
word  resounds  on  all  sides  ;  it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is 
served  up  with  every  course.  Of  the  thousands  of  can- 
ticles which  are  heard  on  this  famous  eve,  ninety-nine 


NOTES.  139 

in  a  hundred  begin  and  end  with  this  word ;  which  is,  one 
may  say,  their  Alpha  and  Omega,  their  crown  and  foot- 
stool. This  last  evening,  the  merry-making  is  prolonged. 
Instead  of  retiring  at  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  as  is  generally 
done  on  all  the  preceding  evenings,  they  wait  for  the  stroke 
of  midnight:  this  word  sufficiently  proclaims  to  what 
ceremony  they  are  going  to  repair.  For  ten  minutes  or 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells  have  been  calling  the  faith- 
ful with  a  triple-bob-major ;  and  each  one,  furnished  with 
a  little  taper  streaked  with  various  colors,  (the  Christmas 
Candle,)  goes  through  the  crowded  streets,  where  the 
lanterns  are  dancing  like  Will-o'-the-Wisps,  at  the  impa- 
tient summons  of  the  multitudinous  chimes.  It  is  the  Mid- 
night Mass.  Once  inside  the  church,  they  hear  with  more 
or  less  piety  the  Mass,  emblematic  of  the  coming  of  the 
Messiah.  Then  in  tumult  and  great  haste  they  return 
.homeward,  always  in  numerous  groups ;  they  salute  the 
Yule-log ;  they  pay  homage  to  the  hearth  ;  they  sit  down 
at  table ;  and,  amid  songs  which  reverberate  louder  than 
ever,  make  this  meal  of  after-Christmas,  so  long  looked 
for,  so  cherished,  so  joyous,  so  noisy,  and  which  it  has 
been  thought  fit  to  call,  we  hardly  know  why,  Rossignon. 


140  NOTES. 

The  supper  eaten  at  nightfall  is  no  impediment,  as  you 
may  imagine,  to  the  appetite's  returning ;  above  all,  if  the 
going  to  and  from  church  has  made  the  devout  eaters  feel 
some  little  shafts  of  the  sharp  and  biting  north- wind. 
Rossignon  then  goes  on  merrily,  —  sometimes  far  into  the 
morning  hours ;  but,  nevertheless,  gradually  throats  grow 
hoarse,  stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log  burns  out,  and 
at  last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one,  as  best  he  may, 
regains  his  domicile  and  his  bed,  and  puts  with  himself  be- 
tween the  sheets  the  material  for  a  good  sore-throat,  or  a 
good  indigestion,  for  the  morrow.  Previous  to  this,  care 
has  been  taken  to  place  in  the  slippers,  or  wooden  shoes,  of 
the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which  shall  be  for  them,  on 
their  waking,  the  welcome  fruits  of  the  Christmas  log." 

In  the  Glossary,  the  Suche,  or  Yule-log,  is  thus  de- 
fined :  — 

"  This  is  a  huge  log,  which  is  placed  on  the  fire  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in  Burgundy  is  called,  on  this 
account,  lai  Suche  de  Nod.  Then  the  father  of  the  family, 
particularly  among  the  middle  classes,  sings  solemnly 
Christmas  carols  with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest 
of  whom  he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that  the  Yule- 


NOTES.  141 

log  may  bear  him  some  sugar-plums.  Meanwhile,  little 
parcels  of  them  are  placed  under  each  end  of  the  log, 
and  the  children  come  and  pick  them  up,  believing,  in 
good  faith,  that  the  great  log  has  borne  them." 


THE     END. 


P5 

A/    . 
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